


Do You Think We'll Be In Love?

by ellevaire



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Combeferre is a devious bastard, Courfeyrac is exasperated, M/M, Mentions of other characters - Freeform, that's it that's the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-23
Updated: 2013-10-23
Packaged: 2017-12-30 05:22:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1014627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellevaire/pseuds/ellevaire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras has an epiphany, gets drunk, pines over hashbrowns, and rejects your notion that certain foods should be eaten at certain times.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do You Think We'll Be In Love?

“Okay, okay, okay, assholes, does everyone have their orders in?” Grantaire shouts over the music.

“Let’s just go,” Feuilly says, shuffling R towards the door. “If these miserable fucks won’t pay attention to us it’s their fault.”

Bahorel, passing by, hears this and cuffs him on the back of the head. “Ow.”

“What about E?”

“He barely drinks anyway, it’ll be fine.”

The liquor store is close, barely a block away, thank god—they have enough to get between them, because their friends are lazy, horrible, lazy people who can’t get their own liquor. Except Jehan, but no one actually knows where he gets his absinthe, the crazy fuck. Grantaire is actually fairly certain he does not want to know.

The cashier is tired and barely throws them a second glance when they heft the bottles onto the counter and pass over the wad of crumpled bills, the pooled resources of their friends.

“Wait, wait,” Grantaire says, running back and grabbing a cheap bottle of chardonnay.

“Who’s that for?”

“Enjolras won’t drink Combeferre’s shit.”

Feuilly rolls his eyes.

It’s snowing when they leave, and their hands are cold and it is. Not. Fair.

“We need better friends,” Feuilly says, gritting his teeth against the wind.

 

Enjolras’ eyes follow Grantaire out the door. He’s sitting on the counter, watching Courfeyrac carefully construct a playlist for the rest of the evening.

“Spit it out, E, I can hear you thinking from here,” he says, without looking up, and Enjolras is frightened by Courfeyrac’s ability to read minds.

“I think…I think R might maybe like me back,” he mumbles around his thumbnail.

“Stop biting your nails, it’s disgusting. Now. What did you say?”

Enjolras sighs the sigh of someone who has had to deal with Courfeyrac’s shit for far too long.

“I _said_ I think R might maybe possibly like me back,” he whispers.

Courfeyrac screams the scream of someone who has seen the void, an anguished cry that draws Combeferre’s attention.

“What?” he asks, eyebrows pinching in worry above his glasses.

“I—can’t. Can’t deal with this anymore. You do it.” Courfeyrac presses his fingers into his temples and leaves the kitchen as the front door opens.

“I need,” he says, making grabby hands at his tequila.

 

Grantaire walks into the kitchen—cheeks tinged pink with cold and snow still melting in his dark hair—to a very surprised and blushing Enjolras.

“There’s an extra wine here,” Combeferre says, holding up the bottle.

“It’s for Enjolras, if he wants it,” Grantaire says.

“I didn’t ask for—”

“I know you didn’t. But I thought if you _did_ , I didn’t want—never mind—Don’t,” he says hastily, as Enjolras pulls out his wallet, “Don’t give me money.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras says stiffly, turning to find the corkscrew. And maybe to hide his blush. Mostly to hide his blush.

 

The world is fuzzy, and it’s really, really nice, Enjolras thinks. He isn’t quite clear on the getting drunk part—he doesn’t remember the process. He just knows the—the _now_. The now is nice. It’s really, really nice.

“You’re really nice,” he says to Combeferre’s shoulder.

“Um,” Combeferre’s shoulder says.

It’s not fair, not really, because Combeferre isn’t this drunk and they both had wine. It’s not that Enjolras doesn’t drink. He does. Sometimes. With dinner. When he remembers to. But he’d also had other stuff, and he’s not really sure what. Some of Courf’s tequila. Whiskey, from Bahorel, a sip of Joly’s liqueur.

He’d sniffed whatever was in Jehan’s bottle, too, but it smelled dreadful. (He’d told the poet as much, and then spent ten minutes trying to braid his long ginger hair before giving up. Poet. Poooo-et. It felt weird on his tongue.)

The worst part is that he doesn’t even know why he did this. Maybe it’s because Christmas is coming up and he abhors everything Christmas stands for in consumerist society. Or maybe it’s because he’s more or less confirmed that Grantaire likes him and he doesn’t know what to do with that, Grantaire with his pretty hair and eyes and hey, that reminds him—

“Where’s R?” he asks, and he knows, he knows he knows, but he can’t remember.

“He’s with Eponine,” Combeferre says, as Bahorel watches in amazement. Eponine had left the room earlier, drunk and upset after a message from her father had pinged through on her phone. She’d since been hiding in Bahorel’s room, and R had gone after her a short while later.

“Oh.” Enjolras frowns. “That’s not nice. I mean. I guess it is nice, because Eponine’s nice, even if she scares the shit out of me.”

Courfeyrac snorts from his armchair.

“Where’s R? No—wait. Don’t tell me. I know.” He frowns in concentration. “I remember! He’s with Eponine. I wish he wasn’t.”

“I am agog, I am aghast, is Enjolras in love at last?” Joly murmurs teasingly from the floor, where he’s tangled up with Bossuet.

“No. I just like when R is here. He makes me all fuzzy. Wait. Everything is fuzzy. He makes the fuzzies fuzzier. And he’s so good at everything. Like, really, everything.”

Courfeyrac sighs and leans back in his chair, while Jehan laughs into the sleeves of his sweaterdress and bites off a smile against his lilac-polished thumbnail.

 

“And I like watching him when he plays the piano, because have you even seen him play the piano? He looks like god.” Pause. “My favorite was when he played Sonata 17 after that one meeting,” someone says, and Grantaire shakes his head because, seriously, what the fuck.

He remembers that meeting. He’d been bored, and had silently practiced the fingerings all meeting on the tabletop, pausing only to argue. He’d practiced, after, on the beaten-down and only slightly out-of-tune piano that sat in the corner of the café, because the practice rooms had been booked solid in anticipation of the impending exams.

But he knows that voice. He loves that voice. He frequently imagines that voice commanding him to do _things_ , i.e. in a sexual manner, when he gets himself off. But Enjolras? Had to be fucking with him. He didn’t even know where this was coming from, because Enjolras’ general disdain with every single one of Grantaire’s opinions ever wasn’t _exactly_ a secret.

Except Enjolras had been there when he was playing Tempest, had watched him play with bright but guarded interest, only offering a soft, “I didn’t know you could play,” in lieu of his usual criticism. Grantaire had laughed. “Music major, they kind of expect you to know something,” he’d said, and Enjolras had let out a frustrated breath. “Yes, but I didn’t know you could play like that.” And promptly left, leaving Grantaire to wonder exactly what _that_ was.

Grantaire peeks around the corner to find a very wobbly Enjolras gesticulating on the couch. Combeferre is messing around on his phone. Courfeyrac is piled on the floor, playing with Jehan’s fingers and examining his hand while Bahorel nuzzles Jehan’s neck. Joly and Bossuet are gone and Feuilly has disappeared into Bahorel’s bedroom to take care of Eponine. Despite his preoccupation, Combeferre seems to be the only one even remotely paying attention.

“He’s so smart, too,” Enjolras says, like there’s going to be more to follow and Grantaire seriously considers having a coughing fit to announce himself, because he can’t handle this. Or throwing a lamp at the wall. Just so he doesn’t walk in on _that_ , because, again, what the fuck.

If he’s right, and this is some sort of sick joke, they are never, ever going to be able to find the bodies. He’s not drunk enough for this. In a stunning role reversal, he’s the sober one. Mostly.

He was happy to console Eponine until she passed out in Bahorel’s bed, but this? This is not okay.

He makes a point of shutting the bedroom door and the living room goes quiet. It’s fine, it’s fine as long as he pretends he hasn’t heard anything, but Enjolras looks up, and brightens like he’s the goddamn sun come out after the forty-day flood. He can’t do this.

“Um, yeah. I think I’m gonna go.”

“Oh. Okay,” Enjolras says, suddenly quiet. Combeferre looks up, finds his and holds his gaze. Fuck. Combeferre’s steady stare tells Grantaire he’s not fooling anyone. Well, he’s not fooling Combeferre, anyway.

“I think we’re leaving soon, too,” he says, looking at Courfeyrac. “I need to get him home.” Combeferre looks at Enjolras and sighs wistfully. Fucker.

Enjolras looks up, blinking at Combeferre, and then at Grantaire.

“He’s closer to me. Do you want me to walk him home?” Grantaire asks. His heart flops around in his chest a little. He’s so in love, it’s sickening.

“I’m right here,” Enjolras says.

“Fine. Do you want me to walk you home?”

“That would be okay.”

Combeferre doesn’t have the grace not to look smug.

 

It’s still cold and miserable outside, but Enjolras has tucked himself into Grantaire’s side and really, things could be worse.

“Want a milkshake,” he mumbles into Grantaire’s neck. Or, rather, the scarf wrapped around his neck.

“What the fuck even, it’s like, twelve degrees out here,” Grantaire says.

“See, people like you are the problem. Trying to relegate—no, wait, yeah, trying to _relegate_ food into categories. I can’t drink a milkshake after October? Fuck that. It’s like, oh—I want hashbrowns,” he says as they pass the golden, glowing arches of McDonald’s.

“You just said you wanted a milkshake.”

“Why can’t I have both? I want hashbrowns.”

“Enjolras, they don’t have hashbrowns right now, it’s two in the morning.”

“See, there you go again, trying to dictate when I can eat breakfast food. Breakfast food is restricting in its own right, just by the name. Breakfast implies a certain period in which I’m supposed to eat chicken and waffles and eggs.” Enjolras slides and nearly faceplants on a frozen patch of sidewalk and clutches at Grantaire’s arm. Grantaire’s heart hammers away inside his chest at the contact. “I still want fucking hashbrowns,” he adds as an afterthought.

“Who the fuck even eats chicken and waffles, that does not sound like it should be a thing. Now, sausage and waffles, on the other hand. Delicious.” Grantaire steers him towards the familiar brick building. “Come on, up.”

Enjolras follows him obediently up the stairs and it isn’t until Grantaire unlocks the door that—

“Hey, this isn’t mine.”

“No, but I’m not walking another half mile to yours, it’s too cold and the sidewalks are bad. You can have my bed, I’ll stay on the couch tonight.”

“Fine.”

They get ready for bed quietly. Enjolras’ drunkenness is starting to wear thin, and he puts on the sweatpants R hands him, docile and unquestioning.

Grantaire brings in a glass of water and sets it on the nightstand, and Enjolras grabs his hand.

“Stay,” he whispers, tugging at him ineffectually.

Grantaire rolls his eyes and allows himself to be pulled down to the bed, anyway.

“Did you mean what you said, earlier?” Grantaire asks, sliding into bed and sort of half-spooning behind Enjolras. He resists the urge to bury his face in the back of Enjolras’ neck.

“Mean what?”

He sucks in a breath. “All that stuff you said about me being, like…talented and stuff,” he mumbles half into the pillow, half into Enjolras’ curls.

“Oh,” Enjolras says, soft and docile again. “Yeah, I did.”

Grantaire wants to say something else, but by the time he thinks of anything other than “ _why_ ,” Enjolras has long been asleep.

Enjolras snuffles and turns to face him. R shifts away but Enjolras fucking whines and follows him, nosing his face into Grantaire’s t-shirt.

Oh.

 

Enjolras’ head is thick and a little foggy the next morning, and he tries to choke down disappointment at the fact that the bed, aside from him, is empty. He checks the clock. It’s not even late—it’s barely ten, R shouldn’t be up for at least another three hours. He fucked up.

His shoulders slump miserably as he walks into the kitchen to gather his coat, trying not to focus on how much (little) of his dignity he has left. Maybe it’s best if he leaves and licks his wounds in private.

The front door opens just as he reaches the hallway, though, and a pink-nosed R walks through. His mouth quirks up at the sight of Enjolras standing there in oversized sweatpants and a holey t-shirt. He’s holding a coffee carrier in one hand, a paper bag clutched in the other.

“So. Uh. It’s a little early for milkshakes, but I have hashbrowns,” he says shyly.

Enjolras kisses him.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic and now I want hashbrowns. Title from Diet Mountain Dew by Lana Del Rey.


End file.
